


Confess Your Heart

by baretoedgirl



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Drug Use, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 00:57:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3309791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baretoedgirl/pseuds/baretoedgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During John's Lost Weekend, Paul finds himself in a role he thought he'd left behind him forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confess Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Everything about the Lost Weekend is always so depressing, and this story came about as a way to add a bit of sweetness to that era. This fic was previously posted to johnheartpaul on lj, so if this seems familiar to you, that's why!

            John. Eyes unfocused, skin clammy, lost in a drug/alcohol/insomnia induced netherworld. Shaking. 

 

            Paul. Eyes bright with anxiety and pills, struggling to keep adrift in his own hallucinatory sea; struggling to keep with it for him. For John.

 

            “John, John.” His voice came out high and warbled, or maybe that was just the way it sounded to his distorted eardrums. Shit. He should have waved that stuff away, should have realized John was already well on his way to losing touch completely. He should have stayed in the old, familiar role of protector, the straight one who keeps an eye while the others wig out. He braced himself as another wave of color and sound washed over him, waiting until it died back down before he dared open his eyes again.

           

            “Have to… get you inside.” Paul had no idea how he was going to do that. He was no weakling, but he sincerely doubted if he could manage carrying John inside the house, only just recently emptied of crazed, hopped-up partiers. Especially not while he himself was seriously compromised. 

 

            John had started mumbling to himself, his eyes even more sightless than usual as they darted about chasing invisible shapes and creatures. Paul gripped him about the waist, knowing he had to try to get him up on his feet.

 

            “Hey John, John, you have to get up. Come on, help me. No, don’t pay attention to them. Look at me. Come on, look at me, look at me. That’s good. Listen. I have to get you inside. You understand? This has to work itself out of your system; it’s safer to do that indoors. John, are you listening? Try to stand up. Come on, put your arm around me. That’s it. Now try to stand…”

 

            Paul, with great difficulty, managed to hoist John up, blinking away the shimmering designs that danced before his own eyes. John seemed to be standing pretty well on his own, and as his mumblings became more pronounced, he seemed to get some control over his motor functions. Enough so that Paul was able to steer him indoors and onto the living room couch without breaking his back. 

 

            “…He wouldn’t let me… Wanted me to… I didn’t want to… Red and blue, funny little men… No! Didn’t want that… Where has he gone? All alone… all alone with the funny little men and no one even knows my name…”

 

            “Shh, Johnny, shh… I know your name. Lie down here, that’s right.”

 

            Paul collapsed against the side of the couch, sliding down into a crouch. He closed his eyes and let the visions sparkle against his eyelids like fireworks. 

 

            “I’m… getting too old for this...” 

 

            He thought about his children, about Linda, where they must be right now, curled up in their beds, safe and serene. He suddenly missed them so deeply that his heart ached. And here he was, looking after John Lennon, cleaning up his messes, just as he always had, even now when that wasn’t supposed to happen anymore, letting himself get almost as helpless in the bargain. It wasn’t right, wasn’t fair.

 

            “You’re not old…”

 

            John’s voice broke through the miasma of his thoughts and dreams. Paul frowned, eyes still shut.

 

            “What? Did you just say something to me?”

 

            But John just hummed to himself and mumbled “… bloody fish want me to eat them… but the one with a lisp’s a German spy, haha…” 

 

            Paul gave an exasperated sigh. There was silence for a while, and then John began singing, “Shake, Rattle and Roll” off-key and with extremely lewd lyrics. 

 

            “Shut the bloody hell up, John!” Paul yelled finally, frustration and his headache getting the better of him. 

 

            Silence again for a while.

 

            “Paul…” 

 

            Paul tried to ignore him.

 

            “Paul… Paul! Pauuuuuuuul!”

 

            Paul dragged himself semi-upright and glared at John, who had turned towards him and was staring at him with a stupid grin on his face. “What?”

 

            “I just wanted to make sure you were still there.”

 

            “’Course I’m still here, you git. I have to watch you, don’t I? ‘Cause you went and took fuck knows what, and you’d probably have drowned in your swimming pool by now otherwise. Idiot.” 

 

            Pause. “…Sorry.”

 

            Paul breathed out harshly through his nostrils but otherwise didn’t respond.

 

            There was quiet for such a long time that Paul supposed John must have somehow fallen asleep at last. He didn’t know why that should disappoint him so much.

 

            Instead, he felt a touch on his shoulder, and turned his head to see John withdrawing his hand. John looked at him with apparent lucidity, though Paul knew the drugs must still be swirling in his brain.

 

            “I’ve missed you, Macca.”

 

            Paul’s eyes filled with tears so quickly he decided it  _must_ be the pills. “I—I missed you too, John.”

 

            John reached out and captured one of Paul’s hands in his own, squeezing it gently. Paul smiled. He knew that John could get sentimental when he was high, but somehow he hadn’t been expecting it tonight. Or maybe he’d forgotten.

 

            He squeezed back.

 

            They stayed like that for a while. John was the first to break the silence again. “I’m really-really stoned, aren’t I?”

 

            Paul laughed. “Yeah, you really are.”

 

            John nodded his head gravely. “I thought so. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’ right now.”

 

            He couldn’t help but be curious. “What are you thinking?”

 

            John bit his lip in a curiously Paul gesture. “Just… stuff ‘bout the past I don’t like to think about anymore. Stuff ‘bout you and me.”

 

            Paul’s mouth turned down at the corners. Of course John wouldn’t want to remember all those good times. He’d probably painstakingly erased all that from his memory. His heart gave a pang of sadness. 

 

            Surprisingly astute for his condition, John seemed to have noticed the effect of his words on Paul and gripped his hand tighter.

 

            “Look, I know ’m really gone, so I probably won’t make bloody sense, but I want to… I’ve put you through a lot of shit. I know I have. And I know it doesn’t mean much to say sorry, but I am. ’bout everything. Yoko too.”

 

            Paul’s head whipped up so quickly it gave him backlash, and yet he ignored it in favor of John’s words. “You’re sorry about… Yoko?”

 

            “’m not sorry I married her. But pushing her in everyone’s faces wasn’t the best way. It wasn’t good for Yoko either, made her bloody uncomfortable. She’s shy, you know.”

 

            “Huh. Really.” Paul huffed under his breath. 

 

            “I really fucking miss her right now.” The utter misery in John’s voice caught Paul’s attention again. John had tears running down his cheeks and sideways into his shaggy hair. 

 

            Paul felt vaguely uncomfortable. “Hey, it’s not like you’re alone… May’s here, and you’ve been having a great time together, as I hear it.”

 

            John sniffled. “Yeah, she’s alright. Too good for me, really.”

 

            “Where is she?”

 

            “Oh, I sent her off to visit some friends of hers in town. You know, she won’t leave me unless I make her. Seems to think I can’t handle myself on my own.” John chuckled and hiccupped.

           

            “Well there you go. You’re in good hands. Stop feeling so sorry for yourself.”

 

            “Wanker.”

 

            Paul stuck his tongue out at John, who laughed and hid his damp face. 

 

            They let the silence settle over them once again, a silence at once familiar and sweet, devoid of any earlier unease. They were twenty-seven again, finding their legs after Brian’s death, they were twenty-three, discovering fame beyond their wildest dreams, they were twenty, tasting the forbidden, exhilarating fruits of Hamburg, they were teenagers, filled with passion and dreams and newfound friendship. All of it washed over them in that moment and coalesced into now. 

 

            Paul sighed. A whisper escaped him before he had time to think. “Love you.” 

 

            John lifted his head from the cushions to look at Paul with bright eyes. (Bright with what, exactly? Paul wondered.) “Love you too, Macca.” 

 

            Paul snuggled next to John’s arm, draped over the side of the couch. He didn’t care what it seemed like, it felt right, and in that moment, it was right. He sighed again, happily, his eyes closed in memories. He felt John turn about on the couch, and then his other hand as it stroked Paul’s hair, tentative and gentle. 

 

            “I missed…this. Being with you.” John’s voice came hoarsely out of the darkness. 

 

            Paul shivered and pressed his nose against John’s inner elbow. “Me too. Dear god, me too.” Beyond his control, the tears that had threatened to spill over earlier welled up again and rolled down his still-round cheeks. 

 

            John felt his hand become wet and drew Paul up towards him. “Shhh… it’s okay, Paulie. It’s okay.”

 

            Paul let himself be enveloped in John’s strong, soothing arms, pulled half-way up the couch, roles now reversed. He wrapped his arms about his old friend’s waist and laid his head on his chest, breathing in familiar John-smell. He sobbed a little harder. 

 

            John was crying now too, his chin resting on Paul’s head and his own tears falling thick and fast into soft dark hair. 

 

            “Fuck, Paul… What did we do? We should never have broken up. We should never have let it happen.”

 

            Paul’s voice was muffled. “But we had to. You know we did. We would have killed each other otherwise. I didn’t want us to hate each other any more than we already did.”

 

            “But I didn’t hate you.”

 

            “You would have. And I would have hated you too.”

 

            John wanted to disagree, but decided it wasn’t worth it. Instead he wrapped his arms more snugly about Paul’s shuddering frame, relishing the closeness, the intimacy, wondering if he’d be allowed to do this if they weren’t both so high. He didn’t feel so high now though. 

 

            He was still on that thought when Paul lifted his head, stared into the eyes a few inches from his own, and kissed him. 

 

            It was dry and over quickly, but it made John’s brain buzz in a way the drugs had not. 

 

            “I’m sorry,” Paul whispered. “I don’t know why I did that.” He began to draw away, confused and flustered, but John held him still. 

 

            John ran a tongue over his lips, as if tasting the kiss he’d just received.  “You don’t know?”

           

            Even in the dim moonlight, John could see Paul flushing. “John, let go of me.” He was squirming now, pushing at John’s chest and arms. “Let go, I mean it!” 

 

            When John’s arms proved resistant to his attempts at escape, Paul glared at him. “I suppose you think this is funny, do you? ‘McCartney kisses ex-partner in drug-addled haze.’ Is that it?”

 

            “I don’t think it’s funny,” John replied quietly.

 

            Paul’s face hardened. “So what then? Are you trying to humiliate me because you think I’m a fucking queer or something?! I’m not, okay? I’m not!”

 

            “Paul…” Paul started struggling again, and it was only with great effort that John was able to hold Paul against him, his words coming out between gasps. “Paul… I... don’t think…  _ouch_ … you’re queer… and I…  _ow_... could never think… you’re…  _my_ _spleen!_... disgusting…” 

 

            Paul stilled. “Why not?”

 

            “And I thought I was the insecure one!” John chided, still panting. “Look, ’m not going to make fun of you or be disgusted or anything. It would be pretty fucking hypocritical.”

 

            “How do you mean?” Paul was still watching him with narrow eyes. 

 

            John leaned forward, capturing Paul’s lips in his own. Paul stiffened, but then seemed to come to a decision. He slowly relaxed in John’s arms, snaking his hands into auburn locks. John smiled against his friend’s mouth and then tentatively slipped his tongue inside. 

 

        Paul moaned low in his throat and set John’s hair on end with electrifying and rather discomfortingly ardent desire. He helped Paul crawl onto the couch and then set upon his neck, nipping and sucking and making Paul writhe and gasp on top of him. Paul eagerly returned the favor and John craned his neck back as Paul’s teeth and tongue went to work on him. John was unable to hold back a groan, and at the sound, Paul transferred his mouth back to John’s own, kissing him with the kind of fierce hunger John had often seen him lavish upon women but had never thought he would be fortunate enough to experience himself. 

 

        The two men lay wrapped around one another on the couch for some time, kissing and caressing, relishing the other’s closeness and the luxury of touch. 

 

        Finally Paul lay his head back down upon John’s chest, both their mouths swollen and gasping. “Is this… crazy?” he finally asked, eyes half-closed. 

 

        “I don’t know,” John whispered after a moment. “Is love ever anything else?”

 

        Paul looked up at him and smiled softly. “Maybe not.”

 

        John kissed him again, with the kind of open tenderness particular to him in such moments. “We can’t tell anyone.”

 

        “I know. But I need this…”

 

        “We both need this,” John corrected him, devouring his old partner’s beloved face with his eyes. “However long this lasts… we need it… to heal us and make us stronger, so that whatever happens… we’ll be okay. We need this because we don’t know what we’re going to have to do tomorrow, what we’re going to have to say or pretend, and I think we’ve both hurt one another enough.”

 

        Paul nodded dumbly, and then grinned. “You know, you don’t sound very stoned. Or maybe it’s just that you sound extra stoned.”

 

        “Yeah, well… I may have faked a little to get you to carry me inside.”

 

        Paul shrieked. “You bastard! I can’t believe you!” He hit him on the chest and John giggled unrepentantly.

 

        “Well it worked, didn’t it? I got into McCartney’s trousers!”

 

        “Not quite yet you haven’t!” 

 

        “Is that a challenge?” John’s eyes glinted dangerously. 

 

        Paul fluttered his eyelashes girlishly and then snorted, ruining the effect. “Well. Maybe.” 

 

        John needed no further invitation.

 


End file.
